


& here the moment

by Not_A_Valid_Opinion



Series: The Most Beautiful Part Of Your Body Is Where It's Headed [1]
Category: Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Beej doesn't know what he's trying to do but oh lawd he's trying, Beej doesn't understand technology, Beej is a guide, Beej should be his own tw honestly, Beetlejuice Has Mood Ring Hair (Beetlejuice), Beetlejuice needs a hug man, Charles Beej and Delia all try to work things out, Charles is trying to be a better dad, Delia is trying to be a better life coach and stepmom, Gen, I made a Vera Lynn joke in this but she just passed so in her honor i kept it, I miiight make this a series I'm not sure yet but I'm for sure gonna write more for this musical, IKEA, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lydia is in therapy, Mild Blood, Past Child Abuse, Suicide, at one point Beej eats a turkey raw, but :( miss u girl, but he DOES know what a hashtag is, but part of this is set in Ikea bc I really wanted to put Beej in an ikea, dont ask, look I've never been to ikea, no beta reader this is how I go out, number one fan of the Fuck Juno club here, obv by Juno but also Charles was a dick at first, set after the musical and if you've only heard it its fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Valid_Opinion/pseuds/Not_A_Valid_Opinion
Summary: Charles’ eyes are wide. He’s leaned as far back in his chair as he can possibly manage. The look of fear reflected back at him from the black of the breather’s eyes isn’t what he was going for at all, and the reflection of his hair, more purple than red and embarrassing at best- it’s too much.In which Charles runs into Beetlejuice and tries to give him a chance, for Lydia's sake.
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Charles Deetz, Beetlejuice & Delia Deetz, Beetlejuice & Juno (Beetlejuice), Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz (Mentioned), Charles Deetz/Delia Deetz
Series: The Most Beautiful Part Of Your Body Is Where It's Headed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815964
Comments: 34
Kudos: 162





	& here the moment

**Author's Note:**

> look I proof read this at 2 am last night. the vibes are sleepy. I just really wanted to see charles and beej interacting more I don't see it enough in fics, especially with delia too. Hope y'all like it, I plan to write a Beej/Adam/Barbara fic next bc i love them

The suicide was messy. 

Middle of the city, off the highest roof within the next few blocks, some kind of a broadcasting station. What kind, well, the demon who watched the event unfold couldn’t say. It was showy, he knew that much, maybe a news station, or radio if those came together, don’t ask him. Regardless of what it was- jumping off of something like that, while the sun was still high in the air and the streets were busy until the police began to barricade it off; there’s a point being made in all that. It wasn’t desperate, nor indecisive- what it _was_ was theatric. 

The buildup was obviously for show. It was clear the man had no intention of stepping down, and was making the effort to disrupt as many days as he could on his way out. It was the rudest way to kill yourself, really. Of course, while people who kill others and hurt them unforgivably and _then_ kill themselves might really be the worst of them, this kind of a show was disgraceful to anybody on the scene, especially when the outcome could be seen a mile away. 

Beetlejuice didn’t understand much of how technology worked- he’d sort of bypassed the thrill of learning. The man had caused a whole scene before jumping- cameras were on him, people were begging him to come down through shouts and banners. A trampoline was set up to catch him, and all he had to do was choose to miss it. He saw people speaking into microphones, and Beetlejuice knew that those devices did _something-_ if it was television or radio, he didn’t know, and he usually didn’t care, and if anybody asked him he’d say he still doesn’t care.

Not that anybody could or would ask him anything anytime soon. He sighs as the scene around him grows, and a watch appears on his wrist to unhelpfully note, as it reads, _IMPENDING._

And, after a few impending hours of firemen and police officers and helpful bystanders begging him to give life a try- he’d jumped. Spectacular sight, considering it felt more arrogant than it did depressing. The man flew rather than fell, and while even Beetlejuice is usually tasteful enough to look away at scenes like these, scenes _specific_ like this one were interest-catching and he couldn’t look away. 

_Splat._ Lots of cries, grimaces, and sighs. What a waste of two hours for those who gathered. 

Beetlejuice had watched the whole thing. He hadn’t meant to- he’d been wandering the Mortal Realm, which he’d since started to refer to as ‘Breather Turf’ in his head. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. 

He wasn’t thinking about it. Nope. Not one bit. 

(The wasted efforts of drawn doors leading somewhere and letting him go nowhere made the chalk in his hands feel like the sharp end of a knife. Everyone was mad at him, everyone he’d ever known. He ruined so much for so many people, and some of it? He wasn’t sorry for. 

Some. 

He… had regrets.) 

Now, this Guide job of his had been going on for a number of hundreds of years. While he considered himself a part-time worker, mostly so he could pick up his _other_ business and get it to take off, Juno would have his head if he’d acted like his whole life wasn’t devoted to the entire purpose of shoving people through doors the moment they hit the gas pedals too hard on the whole ‘still alive’ thing. His second job was far more impressive, at least to himself, seeing as he was the only one who worked the job and he’d hired himself and he made it up. But he was _good_ at it! That’s what Juno never understood. She never let him think outside the box. 

Ha. Hahahahaha. Hardy hard no.

No, she’d shoved him into the box to begin with. From the moment she’d cursed him- no, the moment she gave _birth_ to him, as astronomical the odds and as rare a thing as his creation- she’d wanted nothing to do with him, and nothing more than for him to stay out of her way. It was always _do your job, Lawrence. Stop talking at work, Lawrence. Stay at your station, Lawrence. Put that guy’s head back, Lawrence._ He had no room to breathe, even though he technically didn’t need to breathe at all, and a second job was just what he needed to break free from her control. 

So. Bio-exorcism. 

(Spoiler alert: It didn’t work out for him.)

The whole point of it was to get some ghosts, ones he’d have rounded up as a Guide anyway just this time to ensure they _not_ make it through the door, and then get them to scare a breather into saying his name three times in a row, unbroken. Or, pass the breather his card and ask nicely, and either would have done, but one was making it _way_ too easy for Juno to have won yet again. The technicalities of Beetlejuices’ curse were not all written on his card, and that made things more complex than the ‘easy way’ was worth. 

His mother had given him that card. It by no means held the curse- rather, it held the cure to it. It was the route to an escape, to a way out, to freedom. 

It was the cruelest thing his mother had ever given him. 

Honestly, that was saying a lot. She’d given him plenty of cruel things over the past millennia of his not-life, born-death if you will, and all of them had been nothing short of cruel. 

“Useless,” she’d called him (still calls him, and oh, how he wishes she’d just fucking died, for what it was worth). 

Oh, she’d said more than that. She gave a whole speech, there were witnesses, it was basically a court act. Netherworld ruling- _Lawrence Betelgeuse Shoggoth, you may not interfere in the materiality of the Mortal Realm, signed Juno_ \- Gurrotter, Juror and Judge. Or, Executioner. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t change much. Juno was top-dog, and Beetlejuice was her born-dead puppy that bit and barked and cried until she’d wished for a cat instead, or better yet, that she’d never had him at all. Sure, he didn’t need to do shit all for her to already regret his existence, but it didn’t help when all he could do was be there and for that to be too much. He was a lot, he knew. Good in small doses, if that. 

He was less than three hundred years old once that decree had been made. Demons like him were more than rare- they were finite. They were hot shit, really, and that made him dog shit in her eyes because he was supposed to be all this, all that, all splat after a few years determining otherwise. 

For one, he kept crying. And that was just for _one._

Juno would pull his rapidly color-changing hair, and he’d cry out. “It doesn’t hurt, you baby,” she’d say, because she was hardly using any of her strength at all. But uh ya, it did. A lot. The smashing of the beer bottles on his head, the cutting his hair, the ruine chains- they all hurt. He had a list mentally mapped out of all the reasons his mother was a monster, aside from her prime seat as the Ruler of the Netherworld. He was supposed to add up to so _much_. He was supposed to take over for her, one day. He was made from the finest resources of darkness, half-demon, half-eldritch horror, born-dead, sexy-ass. He was cooked up by accident, sure, and his mother hated him for it, but if she was going to get one good thing out of him, it would have been a retirement plan. And yet…

Well.

Beetlejuice waits as the man’s ghost sits next to his body and watches the paramedics cart it off. The police stick around, but once his body is gone, most of the bystanders and medical officers have already fucked off to forget this ever happened or be scarred by it forever. Still, he waits until the ghost decides to stand all on his own, finally noticing him. 

“Let's take a walk,” Beetlejuice suggests. The ghost stares up at him, his eyes widened. Maybe he’s taking in the demon’s sexy, sexy appearance and semi-sexier apparel. The stripes were just as stripy as ever, and his hair was… 

Well, actually, he didn’t know. He wasn’t looking. He was making the adamant point of avoiding his own gaze in whatever way possible. He runs a hand through his questionable locks in waiting until the ghost nods, and, with shaky legs, trails after him. 

They’re around the corner and outside some real estate building when Beetlejuice finally gives him the run-down on the afterlife. 

“So, I’ll draw you a door, and you’ll be on your way. Cool beans?” 

The ghost does something with his hands. Beetlejuice watches, slow on the uptake. 

It doesn’t register until the ghost is halfway through a long and very handsy rant, and by then it's way too late to start translating it in his head. He doesn’t know any sign languages other than Dead Sign, which was what all signs translated to in the event of the afterlife- same as all vocalics turned into Dead Words for easy understanding. It never erased their original language, but it tended to take a while for most ghosts to figure out how to switch back to their mother tongue if they wanted to. 

While Juno was in rule the first- and God/Satan knows it was the longest- time around, she hated hearing her subjects talking in languages she didn’t recognize. She took it as a personal offense. They were the only two languages Juno knew (aside from Eldritch Horror, which Beetlejuice knew by blood and used closer to never), so it was law that every subject of the Netherworld learn them and practise them exclusively.

So, while Beetlejuice knew what language the man was speaking, it took him way too late to realize he was speaking it. So he waves his own hand just to get him to shut up. 

The ghost looks mad at the interruption and says in hands, “I don’t want to go anywhere. That was why I did this. I wanted nothing, just to be remembered when I leave.” 

Beetlejuice rolls his eyes. “Ya, well, that’s not how death works. There’s always something after, and its always work, _especially_ if you kill yourself to cut your life-journey short. See this book?” he waves the man's handbook around. He’d picked it up while the guy had been sitting over his own body, and the ghost eyes it with a wary sort of interest. 

His own words are vocal, but the thing about death was that it could be manipulated to convenience. It made things messy and fast, and was also the real origin of Hell, regardless of what the bible says. Beetlejuice knew little about his father other than the guy’s last name- Shoggoth- and the fact that he was some kind of unreachable Eldritch God. How Juno got his pants down long enough to make a born-dead disgrace like him was mysterious enough, but the fact of it all was that Eldritch capabilities were stupidly universal. So even if the man was deaf, and that’s why he was using a sign language to begin with, he’d still understand what Beetlejuice was saying. Sure, he couldn’t hear birds sing or a neighbour in the room over jacking off through thin walls, but dead languages worked differently. “It’s a recommended read. It’ll tell you exactly how much worse all the alternatives are. I’m pointing you in the right direction, here.” 

The ghost throws the book into the street where it would get run over by a car, if it could, infact, manifest corperally in that way. Maybe if the car believed it was there, or the person driving the car did, but the odds of that these days were astronomical. Beetlejuice stares at it for a moment before sighing and running a frustrated hand through his hair. 

“Listen, bud. You’re making this difficult. You just gotta walk through it!” 

The individual was waving his hands in fast flash motions. The demon’s eyes follow them before they roll around in his own head. “Oh, no, it’s not a nice place at all. But it’s better than the alternative, and you only have those two options right now. That’s on you. You didn’t think this through, man,” he says, voice grating every which way. “You stick around the Netherworld, work out the hierarchy, find what public-to-civil service job you fit in with best, and then in a few centuries you might even get on Juno’s- she’s the big dog down there- good side!” 

An aggressive hand gesture. It’s not even sign language! Beetlejuice puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow! Geeze, you’re a mean one, huh? Look, whatever personal issues you’ve got going on, there’s no therapy in the afterlife. Bottle that shit up and get a move on, ah-kay?” 

With that, he draws the door and holds the ghost steady. Three knocks later, as soon as his eyes lock on its opening, the ghost is busying himself walking through it. Beetlejuice closes the door with a huff. 

He brushes off his suit. “Damn ghosts these days. Nobody ever listens to ol’ Beej the first time, hah? I wonder if it’s my voice. God, I sound like a chainsmoker.” 

He takes the chalk in a third arm and whisks it away into his pocket dimension. He realizes, as soon as he turns his head, that he forgot to get the ghost his handbook. Without it, it would take literally for- _ever_ to get assorted. So, he stretches his third arm out into the road, snatches back up the book, and redraws the door. 

He opens it with three knocks. “Hey! Ms. Argentina!” 

A pause. Her voice shouts back, “What?” 

“Dead Hands over there forgot his book! Go long!” 

He tosses it in quickly, not wanting to chance Juno’s noticing of him too close to a door again. He has no way of knowing if she actually catches it or not. Ah well, not his problem- he’s reached his helpful quota for the day, anyway. With some aggressivity, he closes the door once it’s out of his hair, and with one final whisk away of his chalk to the depths, he turns to find something new to busy himself with. 

Then screams. Because Charles Deetz is there. 

To his credit, Charles screams, too. He jumps back from where he’d been standing a few arm-lengths away, at the front of the alley he’d turned down. The breather looks just as surprised as Beetlejuice imagines himself to look.

“Chuck!” He startles. Laughs awkwardly. “Aahaha…. What ah, whatcha doing here, bud?” 

Charles says nothing for a long while. His eyes are looking him up and down with an unreadable expression, one that Beetlejuice feels _very_ in the spotlight for and _not_ in the theatrical way he usually strives for. 

“Mr. Juice,” he says, eventually. His tone is anything but friendly, and the demon physically shrinks back. “I see you’re back.” 

“... I mean. Ya,” he says, awkwardly. “I can’t exactly go back to the Netherworld. But really. Why’r you here? This isn’t anywhere near where you live.” 

Charles’ eyes absolutely _seeth_ distrust. He gathers his arms and leans to him, taking a step forward that looks shaky but is rather brave to even be trying, knowing what Beetlejuice is capable of. “The last time I saw you, you ruined my house, scarred my daughter for life, tried to marry her, put murder on her conscious and effectly tarnished any good name you may have had with me and my family. If you are trying to find a way to-” 

Beetlejuice puts a hand up lazily, stops him right there. He doesn’t need to hear the same barretment his head had tossed his way, stirred up in a big ‘ol pot he liked to call his brain. “Nah, Chuck, listen- I ruined stuff with you guys already an’ I’m cutting my losses. No more green-card marriages, either. I’ve had enough humanity in me to last a deathtime,” he promises sincerely, shuddering for effect but meaning it wholeheartedly. “I don’t want anything to do with you or your family. I have a death outside of you guys, you know.” 

He uses his third arm to pretend to wipe a tear. The goal is to come across as anything but deeply distressed at suddenly seeing Charles infront of him. He wants to ask how Lydia is. He wants her to be okay. The thought is weird, for him, especially considering everything that happened between them- still, it strikes him there, so he adds, “and for the record, I did not ‘scar’ your daughter. Lydia’s a tough kid. Nightmares on her end for a week, tops. I’d be more worried about the position _you_ put her in that made her feel like she had to throw herself off the roof, an entire note written to commemorate herself with, and then summon,” he flaps his hands all over himself, “someone like _me,_ just to make things better for her. Which I did! To an extent!” 

To his credit, Charles retracts the step forward he took earlier. The confidence has fled somewhat, then. Good. Beetlejuice turns his nose up snootily, waiting for the remark. 

None comes. The response is belated and deflated. “That’s… true,” he says. “To an extent.” 

Ooooh, going to be like that then, hah? Beetlejuice turns to look at him again. 

He’s dressed extra fancy. Frills under his tie and everything, his hair extra groomed back, much more than it had been when Beetlejuice first met him. The demon is acutely aware of the mold he can feel sprouting all over his own suit and even amidst his facial hair, most of which he grew just to pick off and eat later. The incongruity between the two of them was _fabulous._

Charles straightens his tie. “As it is, I have been putting a lot of work into making myself a better person for Lydia’s sake. I am… hesitant to believe you can change in your ways.” 

Beetlejuice feels his eye twitch. He pushes that comment down, deep down, so he can cry over it later when he won't embarrass himself. “Then why are you talking to me? Why are you even here right now? This isn’t anywhere near your house, and you could have _easily_ pretended you didn’t see me.” 

“I’m on a business trip,” is the curt answer. “But I noticed all the police cars and then… well. You stand out in a crowd, Mr. Juice. That man you were with, just now, the ghost… he… killed himself?” 

The demon raises an eyebrow. Was he… was he looking for an explanation, or a conversation? “Oh ya, jumped right off that roof over there. You missed a big show. They guy was all,” and then Beetlejuice switches to Dead Sign to accompany his voice, _“I’m gonna jump, don’t try to stop me! Just give me an hour to stand here and build up to it! The suspense is gonna kill me more than it’s gonna kill you!”_ He laughs, puts his hands away. “I think I saw the cops with binoculars just trying to read his hands to figure out what he was saying. When you're up that high, it’s kinda blurry from below, dig?” 

Charles regards him. He says nothing. Beetlejuice wonders what he’s looking to get out of this, why he stayed to wait and see if he could get a moment alone with him. Unless… 

“Um. Hey, Chuck? Sorry for tryna marry your daughter.” 

Charles clutches his hands tight. Quickly, Beetlejuice continues. “I swear, it was a green card thing. There was no other way to do it. I’d have married you or Darla if you would have been more open to it, but honestly, all I woulda needed was a quick ‘I do’ and I’d have been out of your hairs forever, but this time with a beating heart and the chance to actually... be human. And yano, it all worked out in the end! Kinda. I mean, for you. No more Beetlejuice, so you lucked out, huh?” He chuckles at the end, but his hands are wrung together. 

“Mr. Juice, Lydia was fifteen. How old are you?” 

“Honestly, I can’t pronounce the number, Chuck.” 

The man looks to be at his limit. _“Charles.”_

“Chuck, ya, that’s what I said. I know it’s not what you wanna hear, but for what it’s worth, I really was just tryna get outta your hair,” he admits, crossing his arms. “I know when I’m not wanted, trust me. I was just tryna leave.” 

The silence after the admission is uncomfortable at best. He’d love to add, _not that I wanted to leave, no, I just know better than anyone when it’s time for me to go. I wanted to fix things with Lydia. I wanted to kiss the Maitlands again, to watch them talk about their stupid hobbies they had when they were alive that kept them busy. I wanted to maybe feel alive, even if I didn’t think that would turn literal until…_

“... Well. How you went about it was wildly inappropriate, and I won’t forgive you for that,” is how Charles chooses to delegate his way around that. “Not to mention you trashed our house.” 

He laughs. “Ya. You got me there.”

To his surprise, Charles merely sighs. He runs a hand down his face, clearly thinking things over. Beetlejuice isn’t sure what to do with his own hands, so he puts all his effort into fighting the urge to make more, just to give him something to do that doesn't look too desperate. 

Charles being here, and actually staying for the time being, was goddamn perplexing. What the fuck was he looking to get out of this? He should have just pretended he hadn’t seen him, then he wouldn’t be standing there thinking of some way to get out of the conversation _he’d_ started. Humans were so goddamn weird, even this stale, boring, house-selling working man. This _was_ Lydia’s dad, after all. 

That counted for something, right?

“How’s Lydia?” He asks, before he can stop himself. Then his eyes go wide and two more arms extend before he can stop himself, and he shuffles four hands together awkwardly. “I-I mean. Not that I care or anything. I mean, she’s my friend, sort of, I mean she did kill me but who hasn’t tried to at some point, yano? Um. Is she-” 

“She’s fine.” 

The clipped tone is a warning, but it warms Beetlejuice’s cold heart, anyway. “Oh. Good, good. Glad to hear it. Anyway, uh. You’re probably busy, so-” 

“How do you know Ms. Argentina, Mr. Juice?” Charles asks, suddenly. “When you opened the door for that gentleman who… killed himself, I heard you call to her. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” 

Beetlejuice’s mouth drops. “Wow, okay, back up. How the fuck do _you_ two know eachother? Like, for real, what? I know her because she’s one of the only nice people in the Netherworld. Oooooh, did you meet her when you and Lydia- oooooooh! That makes so much sense. Let me guess, she hid you from my mom? She’s _so_ nice, you really struck out meeting her that way.” 

Charles has a rather tight expression on his face, but it’s somewhat looser than what it was before. “Yes, we did… and she tried to hide us, but your mother is, well. A lot. But… Juno, was it? She’s dead now, right?” 

The tight expression has transferred to Beetlejuice’s face, now. “You wanna let me walk you wherever it is you're headed, Chuck? I don’t think a chat like that does well static o’ motion.” 

“... I… suppose that wouldn’t hurt. I’m headed down the street, just around the corner. I have a business meeting with someone interested in buying property.” 

Instantly, Beetlejuice is on defense. “The house you live in now? But what about-” 

“A different house. The one we live in now is off the market for good.” 

“Oh.” 

They start walking, Charles ahead, Beetlejuice hovering at his side. Sure, he _could_ walk, but he honestly doesn’t like the feel of the pavement on his feet and his shoes have been missing for almost a year now. Besides, Charles was tall, and hovering allowed them to stay at eye-level. “Those sexy pieces of ass that call themselves the Maitlands must be happy you’re all staying,” he says, not wholly expecting a reaction that’ll be in his favor but not even slightly having had expected this conversation to begin with. 

“Yes, well. We’ve all worked out house rules and agreements to abide by so we don’t step on each other's toes. And they’re very sweet people.”

People. Not ghosts. _People._

Beetlejuice smiles. His heart aches. “I’m happy for you guys.” 

They walk the next while in silence. Beetlejuice can’t help but wonder when the last time someone had called _him_ a person was. He’s not even sure if anyone ever has. The last person to ever treat him like a person was Lydia, and, well. He’d messed that up. He’s still not even sure when it started- what did he do to make her change her mind about him? Did she just get bored of him? Was she faking their friendship the whole time? 

_We’re pals!_

_What are you talking about?_ Her words had been distracted. He hadn’t even been worth her focus. She didn’t notice his crestfallen face, his sudden stupor at the change in heart. _I’m going to find my mom!_

The loneliness set in, and he’d already registered the loss before the words had crept out of his mouth. _Then what am I supposed to do?_

(She hadn’t replied.) 

His fists clench. He’d gotten angry after that. He felt used, lied to. He thought- really thought- that he could be treated like a person without actually being one, if only people were more like her. He hadn’t tricked her. He hadn’t (yet) lied to her, didn’t plan to up until that point at all. She’d summoned him and stayed with him and it felt like a real connection. It felt like what friendship should feel like. It felt _real._

Then she’d given up on him. 

And he still doesn’t get why. Even if Charles is letting him be there, now, there would be no way they could ever go back to that- that he’d ever have something like that again. Not when he’d mess it up and not even notice. 

Why the hell was Charles even letting him tag along, right now? He wanted to ask, but he was holding onto the idea that maybe he didn’t realize how weird it was. Charles should hate him. Doesn’t everyone? 

Well. Ms. Argentina doesn’t. Maybe that’s all this is. 

The silence could have been comforting had it not been a weighted threat. He must have whined or something, because Charles gives him a look from the side of his eyes, the kind you might give a cat when they cry at your feet that makes you begin to worry you may have stepped on them. 

But Charles doesn’t say anything. He keeps walking, and Beetlejuice follows, a bit slower behind than when he’d started. He’s just teasing him, isn’t he? He’s just too nice to tell Beetlejuice to go away now that he knows about his connection to Ms. Argentina, or something. Maybe he thinks he’s doing her a favour by entertaining him, for just a little while. Maybe Charles is stressed about this meeting of his, and he’s using Beetlejuice as a distraction to not think about it before it happens. He doesn’t know what this is, and the speculations are cruel, too. 

Charles stops before they get to the building. Beetlejuice thinks he maybe _should_ have talked about his mom, because Charles _had_ asked. But maybe Charles was just scared he’d have an answer that was true and also awful, and he didn’t want to really hear it. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t understand at all, and Charles has reaches his destination, so- 

“Well. Have a good meeting, Chuck. Tell uh, tell Lydia I said Hi, if you plan to tell her you saw me at all. Which you probably won’t do, huh? That’s cool. No sweat.” 

“Beetlejuice.” 

He shivers. The summoning word tugs at his chest, and he has to blink the feeling away. “Ya-huh?” 

“... Would you be interested in joining me?” 

He blinks. Looks up. Sure, reading was never his strong suit, but he gives it his best bet. “To… uh, Stra- Straba- to your meeting?” 

“No, this is a Starbucks. It’s a coffee place. A sit down area, if you will. Can you… can you drink coffee?” 

He stares. “Wh- W.T.F., Chuck, are you inviting me to hang out?” 

Charles looks away. “The events from the week you took over the house are… confusing. A part of Lydia’s therapy requires that her family- me and Delia and the Maitlands, too- we all have to get better at communicating. And she talks about you,” Beetlejuice freezes. Charles, the cruel man, continues; “about how much fun you two had, and how she’s not sure where it all went wrong or why.” 

He shrinks down. Ya, that makes two of them, then. The breather continues; “If you’d communicated better, _both_ of you, then perhaps things could have worked out differently. She misses her… _friend._ And I don’t understand.” 

Their eyes meet again. He looks determined, if a little lost. Beetlejuice has never seen a human’s eyes hold that much conviction before. “I _want_ to understand. We could both get better at communicating, I suppose.” 

“... Don’t you have a business meeting?” 

“I cancelled that while we were walking. I can always call them back up and-” 

He hadn’t even noticed. “No! No, lets do your thing. Lets uh. Coffee? I actually can’t drink any from a Breather Turf because I can’t affect the world here- but I can bring my own. I’ve always got a pot made in my pocket dimension, I mean, who doesn’t?” 

Charles raises an eyebrow, clearly deciding a response, and eventually just nods. “Right. Well, lets go, then.” 

“-and I was all, ‘No way, that’ll never fit!’” he laughs. Charles’ left eyebrow seems to be permanently raised. “But she was all, ‘Sure it will, just jam it in’ but I was right Chuck, it was way too much mayo, the quesadilla was drowning.” 

“... Had neither of you ever made one before?” 

“Well, I hadn’t, but clearly I had the better judgement over Vera Lynn.” 

Charles nods. He sips his coffee. Beetlejuice takes a sip from his own comically large cup, and he has to stifle his laughter as Charles winces at his crunching. The man shakes it off rather quickly, however, and hops right into it. 

“So. Mr. Juice-” 

“Please, Mr. Juice isn’t the name of anybody’s father. My last name is actually Shoggoth. Don’t call me that. BJ is fine.” 

“No,” pales the man. “Ah, how about Beej? Lydia called you that, I believe.” 

“Sure! Maria- ah, Ms. Argentina- calls me that all the time.”

“Great. Beej. How about we start from the beginning? Not- not the beginning of time, I mean-” 

He cuts him off with a devilish grin. Charles was _so_ out of his depths, here. “When Lydia summoned me?” 

“Around then, yes. I would like to hear your side of the story. I have been told that I make unfair judgements, mainly by Lydia, and I’d like to… try things her way. What say you?” 

Beetlejuice grins. “You’ve got a smart kid, Chuck.” 

So, Beetlejuice tells him. How the whole bio-exorcism works, how he planned to get Barbara and Adam to say his name so people could finally see him, how that fell through. He tells him about the roof, about how he stopped Lydia from jumping off. “Not to like, sound like I saved her or anything. I mean, I totally did, but it was more that if she died- the only human to _ever_ be able to see me without a summons other than Katharine Hepburn that one time- then I’d be missing a real good opportunity to cut right to the chase, cut out the whole bio-exorcism business right away- but she wasn’t having it! She pushed me off the roof instead! She’s got guts. You should be very proud of her.” 

Charles takes a moment to process this before he settles on a smile. “I am.” 

Beetlejuice continues. He talks about how Lydia summoned him to do what he knew the Maitlands would fail at to begin with- be scary. But he was, and they were having fun, “-and then she had enough of me. And I don’t really know why. I get that I’m a lot, but- I thought she was different. I’ve never really _had_ what you’d call a ‘friend’ before, aside from Maria, but I have seen F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and so as long as we don’t look at Ross or Rachal or early-seasons Monica, Chandler and Joey, for an example, I thought I knew what it looked like. Phoebe, basically. And I- I thought I was doing it right. But...” 

He falls silent. The cafe is busy, the sounds of the breathers around them, living their own life while simultaneously paying his no mind is usually discrediting, but right then, its grounding. Because _someone_ here could see him, and was paying attention to him, even if he didn’t fully understand why. Sure, maybe he did owe Lydia. Something about this, though, felt like it was driven purely by Charles- as to the _what_ and _why_ of it, Beetlejuice remains silent. 

Charles thinks this over. His fingers drum against the table with one hand as the other taps his earpiece mindlessly. “You and Lydia are both, from what I understand, complicated individuals. Perhaps the two of you finding each other immediately resulted in some kind of kinship, though that alone isn’t enough to hold two people together. As for what happened… perhaps you two simply had a misunderstanding, because Lydia says she doesn’t know what went wrong either,” he suggests. His hands fall still on the table, head low. “Lydia felt. _Unheard,_ I know. And you listened, where I did not. Because of you, she didn’t… my little girl didn’t kill herself that night, on the roof. Self-involved reasons or not and damned what happened next, I _am_ grateful for what you did for her. Not just for keeping her alive, Beej, you made her want to _stay_ alive. She told you that… the two of you hanging out together, that made her feel alive, too.”

Beetlejuice feels fuzzy. “She said all that?” he asks, breathless despite never needing any. 

Things went _very_ much to shit between the two of them. Between her invoking the ‘I’m done with you’ card, to him pulling the ‘fine, I don’t need you either, marry me’ card- it was as though nothing would make that better.

But she’d hugged him. Before he left- knowing damn well he had nowhere else to go, some lie about finding his father that made for a good exit line but would come off depressing if the truth was known- she’d hugged him, and he’d never _been_ hugged before. 

He’d hurt her and her family so much just because she’d hurt him, and in that moment, it was as though she didn’t care. And Beetlejuice still left, because regardless of the mixed feelings tight at the back of his throat, he couldn’t stay there. Too much had been said, too much had happened. 

If what Charles was saying was true… maybe she didn’t hate him. Maybe she was mad, sure, justifiably so. But did people say stuff like that about people they hate? They certainly didn’t on F.R.I.E.N.D.S. 

Charles is still talking. Beetlejuice has to zone back in, almost missing what he says next, too wrapped up in the euphoria of someone actually _missing_ him and how that could be possible. “So… perhaps the two of you need to talk this out together.” 

Beetlejuice spits out the coffee he’d taken a sip from. The spray lands right on Charles’ face, who wipes it off with a napkin after a moment of resignation. It’s noticeably chunky. “Hold the table. Chuck, you’d let me see her again?” 

After a moment, Charles tucks away the napkin. “I would… consider it. Depending on if you can make a few promises. We have agreements with the Maitlands to make sure all of our privacies and wishes are respected. Regarding you,” he adds pointedly, “you would need to agree to those as well, and you would need to agree to additional ones, too.” 

Beetlejuice folds his arms and leans back in his chair. “Ground rules, huh? Fine. Hit me.” 

The man smiles, all business. “Good. First, you can _visit._ That is _if_ you hold your word on everything you agree to. That means no staying overnight, and no forcing or coercing anyone into summoning you. Any loopholes will be considered to be breaches of trust and you will be sent back to the Netherworld. Got it?” 

Ruh-roh. Awkwardly, he shrinks back in his seat, scratching at the strings of hair on his chin and the moss nestled in between. “Uh. About that? I can’t get into the Netherworld right now. My mom kicked me out for getting her eaten by a sandworm. So… how about this?” he leans up, moving on quickly before Charles has enough time to properly examine that. “You want me gone at any time, you just _ask_ me to leave. Don’t hire an exorcist- it won’t work on me, it’ll just be rude. Don’t shove me through a door, either- that’ll have Juno on my ass in a second. Like I said,” he leans back, trying and failing to keep the frown off his face, “I know when I’m not wanted.” 

Charles stares at him with something close to scrutiny and something closer to pity. “So she is back, then. Okay. We’ll talk about that whenever you’re comfortable, but for now, let's just… stick to the ground rules. No exorcisms, no door shoving. Do you agree?” 

“Yep,” he says, popping the P. 

He nods. Takes a sip from his coffee. “Good.” He pulls out a pen and paper from his purse (a satchel, not that Beetlejuice knows that word) and jots something down. “To continue: no loud noises past ten PM. I need rest, and so does Lydia and Delia. No bringing over guests, especially without asking. No following anybody outside the house, only visits within it, _unless_ you are invited like I invited you to this Starbucks. How are you doing with those?” 

“Easy peasy. Especially the ‘no guests’ part. I mean, who’d I bring over, my Clones? Hah! Couldn’t get rid of those guys if I tried.” 

“Very well,” Charles accepts, though he doesn’t look like an actual tone acceptance. He probably just wanted to move on before Beetlejuice went on a tangent. “Next: No touching. At all. Unless you have explicit consent.” 

“What!” he snorts. “I can _only_ touch the Maitlands because they’re ghosts! And you want me to keep my hands to myself? When they’re _that_ hot?” 

Charles’ face is unwavering. “Yes. If you can’t follow that rule, you can’t visit Lydia ever, or anybody in the household at all.” 

“But they’re sooooo hot!” 

The breather’s eye twitches. “Personal boundaries and consent is a strong affirmation, Beej. You’ll have to follow that to a T. You… you do understand how consent works,” his face starts to pale, “right?” 

He blows a raspberry. “Of course I do! No means no, yadayada, hashtag consent and all that I get it, _trust_ me. But I can’t even kiss them? Not even if they’re being really fucking adorable?” 

“Not unless they say so. And for you _especially,_ you have to _ask_ first. There won’t be a third chance if you harass the Maitlands in any way, shape or form- or anybody in the house, for that matter. Is that perfectly clear?” 

Well, it was clear, but it certainly wasn’t perfect. Beetlejuice turns his chin to the ceiling and lets out a demonic whine. “Fiiiiiine. You’re really depriving me, but fine. ‘Sides, I know what ‘no’ means! Y’all are just so stingy! But fine, yes, no touchy rule. Got it.” 

As though he’d been holding in a breath and hadn’t realized it, Charles lets out a hefty sigh. He sinks back in his chair some. “Good. Is there anything you’d like to add?”  
“I suck at math, so no.”

“No, I mean- here, look,” Charles says exasperatedly, yet with a surprising amount of patience. He spins the paper he’d been writing on around to face Beetlejuice, who looks over the scribbles in interest. Charles must look ridiculous to anybody watching him hold an entire conversation with himself this whole time. Of course, he did have the earpiece in- likely, one of those ear-phone things he’s seen humans talking into, knowing other humans were talking into it as well. He didn’t know how it worked, but for the most part, people could just be assuming he was talking on that. Very smart, that, but it goes out the window when he starts shoving the paper his way and moving his finger down the list. Only Charles could see him, after all, because he’s resoundingly grown used to the strange and unusual. “This is the list of rules I’ve been writing.” 

“Oh, I thought you were drawing a picture of me or something. Yano, capturing my scrumptious essence.” 

He’s ignored rightfully. “I’ve added all of these myself. Think of it like a contract between you and the Deetz-Maitland household. It’s all my rules right now, but anybody can add to it if the rule is fair. You can add some, too. As Lydia has been showing us all, communication has to go both ways.”

It takes a while for that to sink in. An embarrassingly long time, really. He doesn’t know what to say. 

That’s… a _lot_ of trust he doesn’t deserve. 

“You’d…. Let me make a rule? For you guys to follow? Not just...” he waves his hands around, trying to muster up the energy to explain how bad of an idea this was and falling short out of pure reprise, “me?”

“Well,” Charles says, “You already added one. No exorcisms, no kicking you into the Netherworld. That’s a rule. It’s on the list, and I’ll run it by everyone back home, and we’ll all sign and agree to it.” 

“Ya, but…” he falls short again. This feels like a trick. “You’re not. You’re not messing with me, right? Because this is getting too… too mundane. If this is a trick, you have to tell me. Don’t mess with me, Chuck.” 

Charles considers this, tapping the pen to his chin. “We can make that a rule. “No tricks”. You don’t trick, prank, or lie to anybody in the Deetz-Maitland household, and nobody will do the same to you. Equal treatment. How’s that?” 

He looks away. This… feels wrong. It can’t be right. Charles is _not_ this nice. This is the guy that hurt Lydia so much, she’d tried to kill herself. This is the guy that hadn’t even hesitated to bring in an exorcist to get rid of him. This is the guy that wanted him nowhere _near_ his house or his family whatsoever. 

Him suddenly acting so… so open, to _Beetlejuice,_ no less? No way. Something was wrong here. 

_Beej, what are you doing?_ Lydia had cried, her eyes so, so full of fear. His hair was red. His claws were long, sharp, and aimed. Barbara was dying, again, and he was so sick of everything, so fucking sick of _everything,_ that it hardly mattered if good things came to an end anymore. 

They always did. 

_Beej, stop! Please!_ _I thought we were friends!_

It had hurt so much to hear that from her. 

It hurt more to lie in the face of hers. _You thought wrong, kid._

(He can’t even be sure if that’s what he said, anymore. Maybe what he’d really said was, _Why?_ Or maybe it was more of a, _Well, I thought so, too._ He’s not sure; they’re all horrible options, all horrible choices, no real choice at all.) 

His eyes narrow. He leans across the table, pretends to grip it even though his hands pass right through. His teeth are sharp and in his face. “Okay. I see what’s happening here. You’re gonna do the same thing you did when I tried to become human, aren't’cha? Ya, ya ya ya, you’re gonna- gonna lure me into a false sense of _gee, maybe things are finally turning out Beej_ then BAM!” he cries, clapping in his face, and Charles starts backwards. His coffee cup tips over, thankfully empty, but it clatters to the floor, thankfully paper. Beetlejuice’s sharp teeth, crawling with bugs and a ghastly red tongue, gets far too close to his face for comfort. “Next thing you know, I’m stabbed in the back.” 

_That… feels… meaningful…_

“This is just another scheme to get rid of me, nobody would- nobody would ever give me a second chance. I hardly ever get a first one. You wanna know _why?”_

He stands. If the chair could scrape backwards at the sudden thrust, it would have, but it's all he can do to make the effort of hovering just above it for extra height. “I’m a _demon._ I’m the son of the _literal_ Queen of Demons, ruler of the Netherworld, and some dude she probably met on the death-pass version of Tinder whom I’ve never met but thanks to that guy, I’m still around, and that’s with a _purpose_ . Even _I_ was too much of a demon for her-” lie, he wasn’t enough of one- “and if I’m not good enough for her, what makes you think I’ll be good for you, or your daughter, or your Darla, or the ghosts holed up in your attic? What makes you think I’ve suddenly become worth a damn of interest?” 

He snarls. Laughs. It is truly a demonic sound. “Nothing, that’s what. You know, Lydia played me for a fool too. She really had me going there- I see where she gets it from. You two just _love_ tugging me around, huh? Do you do that to people, too?” 

Charles shakes his head. “Mr. Juice, that isn’t-” 

“I’m a demon, and I act like one. You watched me kill someone, you watched me try to kill _all_ of you. I- fuck, Charles, I know there’s nothing for me with you and your family, even if they _are_ the only people in any world I can cross into who can see me. They don’t want to, not after what I did. I’m a demon, not a friend. So why, pray tell, do you think you can get away with leading me on like this?” 

Charles’ eyes are wide. He’s leaned as far back in his chair as he can possibly manage. The look of fear reflected back at him from the black of the breather’s eyes isn’t what he was going for at all, and the reflection of his hair, more purple than red and embarrassing at best- it’s too much. 

So, he sighs. Stands back up, runs a clawed hand through his hair, willing it to go green mentally. A few breathes later, and _far_ too close to hyperventilating for his comfort (he doesn’t even need to breathe, so why does it always feel like he _can’t)_ , and it’s all he can do but turn away. 

“I _want_ people to be happy to have me around, okay, Chuck? I’ve wanted that for a long, long time. And I learned pretty early on that what is and is _not_ in the realm of possibility for me. You, and- and-” he has to breathe again. His eyes feel wet, and he’s thankful that he thought to look away. “I’m not worth anything to you, not even this running gag you and your daughter have goin’ on of tolerating me until I become too much. Stop pretending we can work this out, okay?”

Charles says nothing. His eyes are still wide, Beetlejuice can see them in the glass of the serving counter. His shirt is disheveled, his tie flying every which-way. His hair had blown up from the anger in his breath, and he looks rather like he just got off a rollercoaster. 

He looks a little sad, too. 

Beetlejuice looks away. Then, he straightens his own tie, and walks through the wall and out into the street. 

Charles doesn’t follow him. 

He feels so incredibly stupid. Charles was Lydia’s dad. Of course, she’d gotten her duping skills from someone as good as him. He should have known. 

He floats for a while, going nowhere in particular. He spots a newlydead being helped through a door by an actual Guide aside from himself, the first he’d seen in a while. The newlydead had been hit by a car, it seems, but someone else was there to help, so he just kept on. 

Fittingly, it starts to rain. 

He doesn’t feel it. He watches some boring adults run for cover, some less-boring adults pull out umbrellas as though they just knew it was coming, saw it a mile away, a skill he _wishes_ he had. He doesn’t see any kids, but he hopes some are out there, enjoying the feel of the rain on their skin. 

It pelts down all around him, unfeeling. He, however, feels. 

A lot. 

And it fucking sucks. He knows his hair is probably stark purple atop his head. The joke _hurt,_ and it would always hurt, because it would always be a joke. 

He curls up next to a dumpster, across from some homeless guy. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the rain much, as he sat in the small space that offered him little shelter. Beetlejuice says to the homeless man, “nobody loves you either, hey?” 

The homeless man does not respond. Nobody ever does. 

Beetlejuice sits with him for a while. 

The next few days pass by with Beetlejuice in what humans might call a ‘bit of a mood’. 

He doesn’t usually spend his time being cruel to people who can’t hear him- for one, that’s no fun, and for two it's a wasted effort. But he tries again to open up a door to the Netherworld only to be shoved out on repulsion, and he doesn’t bother to try again. He’d hoped that if he helped enough newlydeads out, drawn doors for them to get them in instead of trying for himself, Ms. Argentina would offer him the good news that Juno was letting him come back, even if it was just to his own apartment inside the Netherworld. It was a small place, filled with moving stripes and constantly on fire purely for design and partly for the warmth. It was a place to go when the ignorable world of the breathers left him lonely and the anger, unpleasantness, and disgruntlement of the Netherworld residents itself had him frustrated into isolation of his own accord. At least there he could touch the walls and feel their heartbeats, or stick his head under his sink and gargle down the water (he didn’t own cups), without falling through or making the effort to levitate _just_ the right amount to appear seamless. He didn’t fall through the floorboards because gravity didn’t apply to him, he didn’t need to watch what somebody _else_ had on tv. 

When Juno cursed her one and only son, she’d done it professionally- something Beetlejuice could never achieve in his entire lifetime of death. 

He’d tried a lot of things to revoke her law. The court had agreed to it, granted it full access, and the entire Netherworld of present subjects had voted towards it. Beetlejuice was a known disaster, especially as the son of Juno, and nobody wanted him taking over for her. The demons voted him a disgrace, the skeletons an affront. The ghouls and ghosts usually steered towards head turns and thumbs down over actual words, but those count as votes, too. The streets of the Netherworld bit and spit fire at him with each step until he got the hint- no dice on solace there. An apartment that hid all the noise was all he had. 

It was really just a place. But it was his. 

And he missed having something he could call his own. _Especially_ a friend. 

So, yes. He was in a ‘bit of a mood’. 

He yelled at the breathers. He sat in people's laps when they couldn’t feel it, even laughed for two hours at a biker who hit a rock and went flying. He’d insult people’s hair colors, even though he envied them for their permanency. At one point, he’d walked through the ocean, unable to drown and a boredly good swimmer, just to find the ugliest thing he could find down there. He saw one fish at the deepest part he’d bothered to go to that had black and white stripes akin to his usual suit, which he substituted for comical scuba gear, regardless of if he or anybody else actually could laugh at it. 

“Nice suit,” he’d told the fish through a mouthful of harmless bubbles. It hadn’t seen him. Not even fish could see him, no animals or life-living beings could unless they were more than that, and there were only a handful of people like that, and he’d ruined his chances by closing his fist around them and squeezing. 

He’d never even pet a dog. He’d hear humans go “goochie goochie goochie goo” to them, sometimes, or some other nonsensical noise. Dogs in the Netherworld wouldn’t let him near them, not that he wanted to touch _those_ fiery, spiny monsters that were admittedly no longer man's best friend past the threshold of a beating heart. Breather Turf dogs were soft and fuzzy and always looked like they knew more than they were letting on, and Beetlejuice had planned to touch one before Lydia shoved the pointy end of bad art through his ribcage. 

Mean, mean Beetlejuice deserved that, too, didn’t he? 

He was angry and bored and lonely, and his hair was the worst of it. 

A disgusting black. It happened when he had nothing left to feel. He’d gone through all the emotions so quickly they stopped feeling like emotions at all, and now there he was, staring at his reflection in the middle of a mirror in Ikea. 

He remembers his mom calling his black hair something very specific. 

“ _Look at you,” She’d said, her voice cold._

_“What?” Beetlejuice had asked. He hadn’t seen his hair yet. He hadn’t left his room in his mother’s house in what felt like ages. The bars were strong, too much for even him to break. She’d made them just for him, after all. He was in trouble again, and though his memory was near-perfect, he had no clue what for, what he’d done this time. Time seemed to stop whenever he was home with her- and he was young, and had nowhere else to go._

_If he tried to leave- if he ever made it out- she’d find him, anyway._

_“Black hair,” she’d explained, pointed, but held nothing reflective for Beetlejuice to see himself in. “Lawrence, you’re disgusting. You wanna be my son looking like a goddamn husk?”_

_He’d whined. “I’m sorry.”_

_“I know. I can see your hair. That’s the problem,” her voice was tight. “You’re so… ugh, why do I bother with you?”_

_She says nothing for a while._

_Beetlejuice whines again, from the floor. His mother takes a step forward, and Beetlejuice flinches, but he doesn’t get out of the way in time. Her heel digs into his arm._

_The scar is still there, among others._

She’d told him, in the earliest years of his life, that she kept him around because of what he could do. He had his father’s blood- he was strong. He could take over the Netherworld, she’d said. An Heir. 

If she’d forgotten that, it was because she no longer wanted it. And that meant there was no purpose left for him. 

So, of course, it wasn’t long after that she’d cast him into a curse. She’d kicked him out of her house, told him to get his own place. The Netherworld was cruel to him because Juno was cruel to them, and it was out of pity that one Skeleton pointed him in the direction of an empty lot with her name to get it at a good price. It was a safe-haven, that place, as was the silence of the Mortal Realm. 

Though they both hurt. 

As he stares at his black hair now, trying frivolously to rub it off to no avail, he groans out in frustration and decides to take up the space on the floor where he belongs. 

Into the carpet, he lets out a massive scream, the sound muffled by the floor yet if he were summoned, it would have still managed to break every window within four blocks. 

For a while he lays there, still whining at a one-note pitch, an act that would cause Juno so much shame.

Fuck her, anyway. Maybe he’ll lay there for the next two centuries, whining, just out of pure spite. He’d done it before! Well, he’d _slept_ for two straight centuries before. Demons don’t need sleep, but it does pass the time when you’re bored. Demons don’t get bored, because they’re always on the job. 

Beetlejuice hated his job, and his mom, and his life, and he’d slept for two whole centuries.

He’d woken up to a war, which. Boring. People were dying left and right, lots of newly-deads, and Beetlejuice was getting Guide tingles all over. His sense of when someone was about to die was consistently going haywire, and to get it to stop, he drew one door and kept it open, waiting and Guiding dead soldiers through with a whistle and a tap of the foot to indicate he didn’t have the patience for this. He might have fooled himself into thinking that if he started doing his job, Juno would revoke the curse, but really that was a hopeless dream. Mostly, he was bored- constantly standing by the door was tedious, but it was nice to have a rhythm. 

That's how he met Ms. Argentina. 

She was a new ghost, just starting at her job of greeting the newly-deads at the door, getting them all in line and filing them off. 

She’d been sent to figure out why a door had been open for nearly an entire week. Normally, they opened and shut. That’s what doors were for, after all. So, she’d spotted him leaning against the doorframe, and instantly the problem surfaced. “Hey,” she’d said, checking her notes. “What is this. You are not this man’s Guide.” 

“Na. I was in the area.” 

“Again? You are Lawrence, yes? Juno’s kid?” 

He’d bristled. Then, stuck a hand through the door. “Beetlebuice. With J for the second B. Nice sash.” 

She didn’t look like she believed him. “Beetlejuice? Stupid name. Juno really does hate you.”

He laughed. She smiled, tugging at her sash. “But yes, it is a nice sash. I wore it at send-off parades and parties. I was the one and only, Ms. Argentina, and I still am.” 

“Ya? Love the optimism for someone in a public service position. Yano, joining the army is basically signing a suicide note. Think these guys’ll be your co-workers?” 

She’d wrinkled her nose. “They’d better not. They smell of angry men. I have seen enough of that, thanks.” 

Beetlejuice decided, then, that he liked her. And now that he couldn’t even get through the door… it wasn’t just frustrating, it was _desolation._

First, Juno cut off his access to the Mortal Realm by trapping him as a Guide by curse, just to force him to work, to work for _her,_ when he’d made it abundantly clear he’d never willingly do anything of the sort without making it the entire Netherworld’s problem. But now? Now he couldn’t even get to the Netherworld, because she’d trapped him in the Mortal Realm _with_ the curse that continued to revoke any validation to his existence whatsoever. Two curses from her, two curses from him. 

“Fucking biiitch,” he whines into the Ikea rug. It’s all he has left to do. Him and his stupid black hair.

He only pushes himself up when he gets hungry, diving into his pocket dimension to produce a live turkey. He bites its neck and chews, watching as blood drips but does not land onto the floorboards. 

The turkey lets out a pitiful sound. 

“You and me both,” he groans, and takes another bite. 

“Oh my- Beetlejuice?” 

He shivers. The voice is familiar. He turns his head lazily upwards to see Delia- and, with an eyeroll of notice, Charles at her side. 

Charles stares with wide eyes, mouth slightly ajar, while Delia’s entire face is covered with her hands. “Is that a pheasant?” she cries, her own voice muffled and stringy. 

He looks at the half-eaten turkey, barely any of it left by this point. Most of it was in his facial hair. “Have you never seen a turkey before, Darla, really? Don’t you have a whole racist holiday dedicated to-” 

“She’s a vegan,” Charles excuses for her, Delia having turned completely away from the scene to hide her face in her partner’s shirt. His own eyes were still wide. “We heard a scream, and- well. I guess that explains why nobody else was running.” 

Beetlejuice surveys him for a moment. He wasn’t the best at telling time, but he could tell it had been at least a week or two since their last encounter. Record timing for an afterquake, really. Charles looks like he’s trying to hide his shock, an expression Beetlejuice has seen many-a-times before, so much so it's all he can do but grin toothely in response. 

He wants to be mad, still. Maybe throw a joke in, diffuse the situation. Maybe make himself more presentable, just for another chance, another chance he won't take, anyway. He wants to do something, maybe, that will feel real. 

He wants a lot of things, and he’s learned to cut his losses.

Instead, he snaps the turkey and it’s blood away lackadaisically. “There, PETA, I censored myself,” is what he lands on, pushing himself off the floor. He wipes at his striped suit, though there's nothing but mold and dirt to wipe off, and that won't be coming off so easily. Then, he points at Charles, his long and sharp black nail deforming into a claw to make the accusation more demeaning. “And why the fuck are you following me? Into an Ikea, no less. That’s low.” 

Delia has turned back to him, checking to make sure there really was no remaining animal viscera. She seems satisfied for how she pushes off of the man next to her. “We were looking to get a nice new couch upstairs for the Maitlands. The one they have is rather used, I suppose,” she explains. Her voice is surprisingly even. Even Beetlejuice raises an eyebrow at how easily the words roll off her tongue, even when directed at someone like Beetlejuice. “Ikea isn’t my… go-to, but they saw this nice one online, just around the corner.” 

He stares. She thinks for a moment. He watches her do it, as does Charles. When she opens her mouth, Charles elbows her. Whatever she was about to say is cut off by Charles asking- more like demanding, really- “And why are you here, Mr. Juice?”

Ugh. Again with the ‘Mr. Juice’ shit. Even though he was mad at him, he just _had_ to go back to that, didn’t he. 

Whatever. Beetlejuice doesn’t rise to the bait- he’s done doing that. Getting strung along, playing a game he keeps losing at- it was old news. And he felt old, for the first time in a long time. Sure, he was relatively young in demon years and exponentially an infant in Eldritch years, but in human years he was ancient and he truely, really felt it at that moment. 

“Shopping,” he says. Yawns, though it wasn’t that kind of tired. It was more to show off his teeth, emphasizing his next point. “Felt like shoving my face in the floor and screaming, wasn’t necessarily an invitation for you to come over. It’s just the kind of thing you do in an Ikea, yano.” 

Delia laughs. Charles narrows his eyes. 

“Oh, yes. Ikea does tend to bring out the rage in people,” she says, her blue eyes _astoundingly_ light in contrast to the heavy pair that Charles was carrying. She wraps her arm around her- well, Beetlejuice has been saying ‘partner’ in his head, but now that he sees their matching rings he’s certain they’re married. Her husband holds her, too. It’s sweet. 

Beetlejuice looks away. After a moment, he sighs, then lays down on the couch to his left- an ugly yellow thing, much too bright for anybody. He’d been leaning against it to eat, but now that he’s been interrupted, there’s not much point to sitting on the floor anymore. 

The pose he takes is dramatic, like a body in a casket, and the brightness of the couch only vaguely ruins the mood. He hopes it's a clear enough pose to articulate the idea that he doesn’t want to talk to them. 

Obviously, he _does_ want to talk to them. But he knows they’re just entertaining him, scared he wont let them go now that he’s seen them. Closing his eyes and feigning sleep would give them the chance they needed to ‘round the corner’ as pathetic of an excuse that was. 

He waits. Cracks an eye open, just to check. Yep, they’re gone. Good. He blows a raspberry. Good. That’s good. He doesn’t need them. It’s fine. His eyes close again, starving the world away.

“What do you think of this lamp?” 

The voice is above his head, now. He opens an eye. Delia has shoved a striped blue and yellow lamp his way, angling it so he can see the side of the pattern without having to get up. 

She waits expectantly for an answer while Beetlejuice debates giving her one. Eventually, he says, “Um… it’s pretty ugly?” 

She purses her lips. Then, she turns away. He closes his eyes again, assuming that was the end of that, despite the weirdness of it. 

“What about this one?” 

He opens both eyes, this time. A black lamp with a fancier lampshade, one white with swirls encircling it. 

He leans up, twisting his torso to face her. “Why are you asking me about lamps? Which, by the way, this one is much nicer. But still.” 

She holds the lamp closer, inspecting it. “Because I needed a third opinion. Charles has little to no opinions when it comes to decor, he’s all about the utility of things rather than their design. But accepting something new into your life has to be about more than just what something can give you, you know,” she tells him, then winks, but Beetlejuice doesn’t see the gesture, too busy looking around them with suspicion. He doesn’t see Charles anywhere.

“And Chuck is…” 

Delia follows his eyes. “Oh, he went to go check out the couch the Maitlands wanted. I don’t get a say in the design, considering they picked it out. Even if I do think it’s a bit… tacky, they’re allowed to like what they like without me having a say in it.” 

Beetlejuice leans back onto the couch. “Um. Okay.” 

He doesn’t understand her at all. They never really hung out much, while Beetlejuice was still summoned. He hardly knows anything about her, other than the fact that she probably hates him, too. 

She hums to herself. “You seem troubled.” 

“I’m not.” 

His voice is snappy. She blinks at his tone, but says back easily, “when I’m troubled, I like to practice smiling in a mirror. The more you do it, the more you start to want to.” 

Beetlejuice frowns at her. Not that he hadn’t been frowning before, of course, but his expression must have shifted into something less readable, for Delia’s own face falls. “Of course, now that I’ve spent more time with Lydia, I know now that giving advice that I’ve practiced tends to make things worse.” 

She sounds… wistful. But nope, Beetlejuice isn’t planning to give her that. To give her a shred of interest, not when it’ll just turn back into a conversation one of them doesn’t mean. 

He’d rather be alone. He’s done with wistfulness. So, he keeps his mouth shut. 

She twists the lamp in her hands. Even though Beetlejuice isn’t looking at her, she continues undeterred. “Sometimes when people like Lydia are troubled, they don’t like to talk because they’re scared they’re going to be ignored, or worse, someone will just pretend to understand. I did that to her. So did Charles. I think… maybe her mother was the only one who didn’t, until the Maitlands came around. I’m learning. Charles is learning. And I think we’re all getting better at communicating with one another.” 

She puts the lamp down on the floor and sits on the armrest of the disgustingly yellow couch. Her shoes are heels, rested on the couch cushion by his side, and Beetlejuice shuffles back a little. He tucks his arms close to his chest, looking anywhere but at her, but now he just feels small. He’s laying down, admitting defeat; meanwhile Delia is sitting higher than him, back straight where he was now curling into the couch, bragging about all the things Beetlejuice could have had if he had been better. 

Delia continues. “You’re a lot like her, you know. And we all care for her a lot. You were friends, right?” 

He shrugs. 

“Then you care, too. And you may not be… conventional,” she grimaces seemingly at the words she chose, “but you’re a part of this. If you want to be, you know.” 

Stubborn as a demon, he refuses to talk. This was too similar to what Charles was saying. It was too similar to what they’d all said to him, right before he’d been stabbed in the back. It was too similar to what Lydia had said, right before she left him to find her mom, taking it all back in the simple action of leaving him. It was too _much_. 

His mouth feels wired shut, and suddenly, it hurts. 

So. He says, along with the motion, “knock knock.”

She pauses. Excitement and confusion flash onto her face. “Who… who’s there?” 

“Open the door to find out.” 

With a touch of hesitation, she makes the motion of opening the door and peering inside. Into her face, where the imaginary door frame would be, he sticks up the middle finger. 

She _laughs._ The reaction isn’t what he was expecting. His hand falls. “Wh- hey. Stop laughing.” 

To his surprise, she laughs harder. She gets off the couch and falls to the floor like a madwoman. Beetlejuice hops off the couch too, trying to pull her up even though he can’t touch her. “Darla, uh, I hate to break it to you but nobody but you and Chuck can see me right now, so-” 

She doesn’t seem to care. And, oh, great. Chuck is back. He walks over to them in a rushed jaunt, then stops when he realizes she’s only laughing. 

Beetlejuice shrugs in the place of an answer when Charles looks to him for one. “I know I’m funny but man, I swear, my material is rusty.” 

“No, it’s-” Delia cackles from the floor. After a few heavy breathes, she pushes herself into a sitting position, hair a little messy and legs sprawled out uncomfortably. “You really are so much like Lydia.” 

He isn’t sure how to feel about that. His chest tightens, anyway, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. 

Then Delia says, “you even have the same hair colour!” 

And oh, right. His hair was black. 

_Why do I bother with you?_

“It looks nice, by the way,” Delia adds, finally calming down. She stands with the help of Charles, who glares at a couple across the way who’d been watching them with judgment in their eyes. “I tried to dye my hair black, once. Didn’t work for me. But it matches your stripes!” 

“You… think my hair. Is nice,” he says, slowly. She smiles and nods. Charles watches him like a hawk, but it doesn’t feel scrutinizing, at least not at that moment. 

His chest hurts again. 

“Thanks,” he says, his eyes a little watery. 

A worker clears her throat. A woman, taller than even Charles, wearing a bright blue Ikea vest. “You’re both going to have to leave,” she says. 

Charles clears his throat. “May I make a purchase first? There’s a couch around the corner we were looking to buy.” 

She stares between the two of them before she nods and motions for him to take the lead. 

Charles starts walking. Delia turns to him and smiles with a hushed, “wanna come see what the Maitlands picked out?” 

His eyes widen, and when Delia starts to walk away- against his better judgement- he quietly follows along. 

The transactional process is boring as hell. Charles buys it, while Delia tells Beetlejuice exactly _why_ the colors don’t suit the attic and exactly why it's perfect for the ghosts anyway. By all accounts, it looks like she’s talking to herself- when the Ikea worker continues to stare incredulously at her one-sided conversation, Charles offers her an aggressive, “She’s off her meds.” The employee nods and says nothing else about it. 

Then the process is over, the couch is set to be delivered next friday, and Delia offers him a lift home. 

Her words, not his. 

“Huh?” he says. Charles is oddly quiet. 

Delia looks serious. It’s really fucking unnerving. “Listen, Beetlejuice-” he shivers, teeth clenched, but the sensation passes- “Charles told me about your meeting last week. And about the offer he made you,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, and it phases through, so she lets it hover just above his shoulder with a quick adjustment, “he told all of us, actually. And, well, Lydia starts summer break in two days, so we were waiting until then, but… she asked all of us if we could summon you.” 

Beetlejuice raises an eyebrow, looks to Charles. He nods. The implications of that set in as he turns back to Delia and ducks away from her hand. “Wait, so- you were actually. Like you were gonna actually fucking summon me, then.” 

She nods. “Yes, dear, when she goes on summer break. That way she could be with you more, if you decided… that you wanted to stay. To visit. Of course, Charles already went over the rules with you.” 

Charles takes his cue, then. He steps forward, and once again, Beetlejuice steps back distrustingly. “Beej…” 

“Oh, so we’re back to _Beej_ now?” he snaps, claws clenched into his fists. Charles takes a moment before he straightens his back and affirms himself. 

“If you’ll allow it.” 

It’s an offer. And, for the record, he doesn’t _dis_ allow it. So, he turns his head away, and Charles uses the confusing gesture to rebound off of. “I would like you to know that my offer was genuine. And it’s still on the table. _Assuming_ you agree to the rules. We have a proper list we all worked out at home, and again, you can add as many as you like to it so long as it’s fair as well as you can… refuse the rules we propose if you have reason to believe they are unfair, too.” 

He wants to believe it, but he’s been around long enough to smell a con a mile away. “Let me guess. All the rules will be, _Don’t Act Like A Demon, BJ. Don’t Do This Thing Demon’s Do, BJ. Don’t Step Out Of Line, BJ. Don’t Make Us Mad, BJ_. If you wanted me to act human so badly, you wouldn’t have killed me the second I became one! And if I wanted to live in a prison of rules again, I’d go back to living with my mother, thank you very much.” 

Of course, he couldn’t if he wanted to. But that point doesn’t sell as well. He watches their faces fall with a bland sort of dissatisfaction and points at the audience. “This guy gets it.” 

They follow his finger to the pavement. Upon seeing nobody there, the line is shrugged off. 

Delia steps in again, putting her hand on Charles’ arm as though to tag in. Charles seems to understand the gesture, and his eyes soften as he stares at her and lets her speak. “Beetlejuice,” she starts, and again, _shivers-_ “Lydia wants to know what went wrong between the two of you. You matter a lot to her. You saved her life, she told us. And you made it better, too. And while there were… incidents, proceeding… we understand that we weren’t the easiest to get along with either. For her sake, we’d like to all get along.” 

“You- you don’t want that. I mean, what if I try to kill you guys again?” 

“It’s in the rules that you can’t do that. So, if you agree, we’ll have nothing to worry about.” 

“W- well, what about me, then? Is it in the rules that you can’t kill me? Because last time I checked-” 

“It is.” 

“-I was- wait. No it isn’t.” 

She steps forward. He takes a step back. She steps again, fearless. “Yes, it is. You told Charles you wanted honesty. The marriage was a lie- killing you was a result of that. A direct rule was added- no killing each other. That goes for us to you, and you to us. There are other rules like that. The paper is on the fridge.” 

Charles steps closer to Delia and puts his hand on her shoulder. “We aren’t lying about this, of that I _can_ assure you.” 

There was… a lot to unpack there. Beetlejuice truly can’t see a hint of deception in their eyes. The huge _but what if_ lingers in his mind, and he bites his bottom lip before turning away. “Give me five minutes,” he tells them over his shoulder, then snaps an array of clones into the Ikea parking lot. 

“Hello, Beetlebuice!” they shout in choir. 

“Hey guys, huddle up here,” he tells them, and they obey like the perfect replicas they are. Of course, some of them looked crazy different from him, but his abilities weren’t very fine-tuned to finesse as it was. Still, it worked well enough for group discussions. 

They all huddle arms over each other and tuck their heads down, while Beetlejuice makes an extra two hands so he can still gesticulate. “What are we thinkin’, guys?” 

Beetlejuice #4 speaks first. “It’s not worth it. If they lie and exorcise you, you could disappear for good, considering you aren’t summoned right now. If they kill you flat out, you’ll be sent to the Netherworld, and then you’ll have to answer to ma.” 

They all, as a collective, shudder. Beetlejuice #8 talks next. “But I miss Lydia!” 

Beetlejuice #3. “We all miss Lydia! That doesn’t mean the risk is worth it. Plus, think of his heart, man,” he says, extending a third arm to comically open Beetlejuice’s chest and reveal the saddest, shrivelled up raisin of a heart known to man. Some of the clones wince. “He’s been through enough. She’ll just hurt him again. Or he’ll hurt her, and that’ll hurt too!” 

It’s Beetlejuice #2 who speaks after that. “But if he continues on his own forever, it won't be worth it! It already isn’t, and we know it. Look at him- his hair isn’t even green anymore! How can he be happy if his hair isn’t green?” 

Beetlejuice #1. “He isn’t happy! Staying the same and missing this opportunity, no matter what may bring, will only make it worse,” he aims his next words at Beetlejuice, “ya gotta go mend that shriveled little heart sometime, bud. It can stay shriveled forever.” 

Beetlejuice closes the door on his chest, embarrassed. Still, he thinks this over. The clones argue in hushed tones around him, and finally, he sighs. 

“I’ve made up my mind,” he says, loud enough that the sound will reach Delia and Charles by their car. The clones back off of him, watching in a hushed interest as Beetlejuice turns to face the breathers, tucking away his extra limbs. 

“I will… join you. In your little car. To your little house. If,” he starts, holding a finger up. He waits a moment, to draw in tension. His clones are piled on top of one another as they wait to see what he will say, and the Deetz’ hold their breath in tandem. Beetlejuice pulls out another arm to check the time on his wrist, then slowly tucks it away again before returning his attention to his poised finger. “... you buy me ice cream.” 

There’s silence as the offer is put out there. He extends an arm for a shake, as though they’d be making a deal with the devil. 

Finally, in a serious voice, Charles delivers the blow. “There’s a Dairy Queen up the road,” he answers, and shakes Beetlejuice’s hand. 

The crowd of his clones goes wild and Beetlejuice snaps them away before they get too excited, and as Delia holds the car door open for him, he catches a glimpse of his hair in the reflection. 

It’s still black. But there’s some green there, too. 

He sticks his head out the car window as they drive.

**Author's Note:**

> fffffffffff ok my insta and my tumblr are @ dasicality if anybody wants to come bother me I'd be happy to be bothered. Also my spotify is @ dasicality too and I'm working on a Beej playlist that should be up soon if anybody wants 2 jam  
> EDIT: thanks so much for all the supportive comments! I've decided to make this a series :0


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